The Death of Dulgath by Michael J. Sullivan Page B

ravine, and a woman drew water from the central well, but he didn’t see anyone else. Two doors closed as he approached, and the shutters on nearly every house abutting the street were sealed.
    He hoped the pastor wasn’t watching him as he turned downhill toward the river.
    On that day the village market was open. The dale’s version was small, airy, and lined with stalls and carts selling salt, spices, leather goods, candles, copper pots, and brass buttons. Caldwell House wasn’t hard to find. The building sat on the corner of THIS WAY AND THAT, which was a confusing sign, given that five separate lanes came together at the same intersection; two, however, were only small pathways. One of these led to a reclusive home surrounded by a stand of trees, while the other marked the entrance to what Hadrian thought must be Caldwell House, easily the largest building in the village.
    The place was tall, a full four stories if you counted the three dormers and five gables built with all the planning of an afterthought. It, too, was made of fieldstone supported by thick timbers. Like everything else, it was covered with thick ivy. The place was a living plant with doors and two smoking chimneys.
    No sign was posted at the entrance or from the eaves. But the door was open, and three men stood in a cluster on the porch, smoking long black pipes. They scrutinized him; not one smiled.
    “Excuse me, is this an inn?” When no one replied, he added, “You know, a hostelry, an auberge, a lodge, a way house?”
    Just stares.
    “A place where people rent rooms for the night to sleep in?”
    The group puffed and walked back inside, leaving a cloud behind.
    Not to be deterred from the possibility of a good mug of beer—even a reasonable imitation thereof—Hadrian tied Dancer to one of the porch posts. He clapped the horse’s neck. “Hang in there. I’ll see if I can find something for you, too.”
    He walked around the railing and up the stairs onto the porch.
    “Don’t mind them,” a voice said. A moment later a young woman stepped out of the gloomy interior of the house, emerging from the ivy-wreathed hole.
    Red hair—lots of red hair.
    Divided down the middle of her head, the woman’s ginger tresses spilled to her waist after first cascading off bare shoulders. Small and dangerously pretty, she wore a gown elegant in design but not material. Black felt pulled together with leather laces formed the plunging front, while the sleeves were made of coarse wool. Side panels—hidden beneath her arms—were made of suede, and the cuffs and pleats were comprised of stitched together burlap scraps. Not remotely refined, the patchwork dress was a bold attempt to imitate the wardrobe of a lady using the means of a waif. Yet unlike any chaste noble garment, this concoction of wool and leather greedily gripped the woman’s body, straining the imperfect stitching.
    “No?” he asked, willing his eyes to remain on her face, not a poor alternative given her friendly smile.
    “No.” She reached up, gathering her hair with both hands and casting it behind her like a net. “You’re the one who stopped the feathering last night, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, obviously didn’t need one. “Some folk are holding a grudge.”
    “Not you, though?”
    “Wasn’t there. Heard about it. People talk in a small village. You thirsty?”
    “Yes, but right now I’m looking for a room and a place for my horse. So, is this an inn?”
    “Caldwell House is pretty much whatever you need her to be.” She winked. Her age was difficult to guess. The dress said young, but her confident tone made him think she was a year or two older than himself.
    “Do you…work here?”
    “What? Like a whore or something?” There wasn’t any tone of offense and no emphasis on the word whore. Just a question asked in a delightfully casual manner, as if they were discussing lemonade or the lack of rain.
    He absolutely had been thinking prostitute, but